


Forgotten; Found

by gretawhy



Category: NSYNC
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-09
Updated: 2017-08-09
Packaged: 2018-12-13 02:56:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11750604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gretawhy/pseuds/gretawhy
Summary: JC and Lance have drifted apart. When JC gets called to war, can they find what they lost along the way?





	Forgotten; Found

I loved JC. I don’t remember a time when I didn’t. Ever since I met him, I was in love with him.

Our lives were perfect. We had a nice house, the farm was prosperous, we had each other. And that was all we needed. Each other. As long as I had JC, I could make it through anything.

I don’t know when that all changed. I couldn’t pinpoint it, I couldn’t put an exact date on it, but it changed. Things weren’t as great as they used to be, things weren’t as rosy as I was used to them being.

This hit me as I stood in our front yard, hanging our sheets on the clothesline. I was reaching up to attach a clothespin to the corner, listening to the sounds of our piano coming through the window. JC was inside, probably hunched over the keys as usual, playing random melodies, stopping to write down words as they entered his mind. I smiled as I listened to him, the smile turning to a frown as I remembered a time when he would be out here, helping me hang the sheets. There was a time when we would do everything together, not being able to be apart from each other for more than the time it took one of us to drive to town for milk.

We lived on a farm two miles from our closet neighbor, ten miles from the closest town. We liked being secluded. In these times, people weren’t too happy with same sex partnerships, so we didn’t flaunt our relationship in front of the townspeople. They had kind of a don’t ask-don’t tell mentality, and to them, JC was just a friend who lived with me because it was cheaper than finding his own place.

I had inherited the farm from my folks who had died a few years earlier. My dad died first, in a freak accident in the fields. No one was with him, and as far as anyone could guess, he was plowing the fields when he had fallen from the tractor and the blades hit him. I don’t like to think about it too often, and when I do, he went quickly, he didn’t feel any pain. My mother died shortly thereafter. She was never the same since my dad died, and I think she just died of a broken heart. I’m positive that’s possible.

So I’m standing in our front yard, looking up at the house, listening to JC play the piano, and I realize that things aren’t perfect anymore. I struggle to remember the last time we made love. Really made love. Not this thing we seem to do now - murmuring words of love and having sex, rolling over to our respective sides of the bed when it’s done. I don’t remember the last time we laughed. I don’t remember the last time JC looked up at me and just smiled.

I do remember the last fight we had. I remember the last time we sat in the house in silence and didn’t say a word to each other all night, not because we were fighting, but because there was nothing to say. I remember the last time we ate dinner, both of us not looking at the other, intent on the peas and mashed potatoes that we were eating.

I’ve forgotten what it’s like to love JC. I’ve forgotten what it’s like to hold him in my arms and fall asleep that way. I’ve forgotten what it’s like to wake up and have him be the first thought in my head.

I miss that.

I miss us.

Now it seems we never talk anymore, and when we do, we argue.

I hang the last corner of the sheet and sigh as I walk to the farmhouse. The hinge on the door creaks as I open it, and I curse JC for not fixing it like he said he was going to.

“JC!” I yell, letting the screen door bang shut behind me.

“How many times do I have to tell you not to slam the door?” he yells to me from the living room.

I stand at the door and look into his angry eyes, “How many times do I have to tell you to fix the hinge?” I counter.

He grumbles at me and turns back to the keys, “Not now, Lance,” he says.

I cross my arms over my chest and snort at his back. “Not now, Lance,” I repeat. “When, then, JC? When is a good time to talk to you?”

His fingers halt over the keys and he hangs his head. I can tell he’s starting to get angry. Shaking his head he sighs dramatically and turns on the bench. Looking up at me, he opens his arms, “Fine, now’s a good time. What do you want to talk about?”

I’m suddenly disgusted by him, sitting so smugly on the piano bench, like none of this is his fault. “You know what,” I say, turning away, “nevermind.”

His laugh is bitter behind me, “Typical,” he says, “you interrupt me, start a fight and then walk away.”

Frustration boils to the surface, and I whirl on him, pointing my finger at him, words tumbling from my mouth. “Fuck you, JC! This is the first time the two of us will have talked in days, and you blame me for trying? You blame me for slamming the door? Fine, blame me, but you should know this isn’t all my fault! You share some of the responsibility!”

He stands up, his eyes narrowing, “Responsibility for what, Lance? What kind of problem do you have boiling in your mind now? The hinge? The porch step that squeaks? The fact that I haven’t hung the damn porch swing for you yet? What?”

“Us, Josh!” I yell, motioning between us. “We’re what’s really broken here, and I seem to be the only one of us who gives a damn!”

His eyes grow big. “We’re broken, Lance? Aren’t you being a little dramatic?”

“No, Josh, I’m not! Things aren’t the way they were between us anymore, and I’m tired of it. I’m tired of pretending that everything’s great, because it isn’t.” I lowered my voice, “Come on, JC, you have to had realized this.” He didn’t respond and I raised my gaze to his. “Do you still love me?” I asked, my voice cracking.

His features softened slightly then instantly hardened, “I do still love you, Lance, but I hate that you doubt that. I tell you every day that I love you, what more do you want me to do?”

A tear rolls down my face, “Love can’t be spoken, JC,” I say softly, “It has to be shown.” With one last look at him, I turn and leave the room.

As I walk down the hall, I hear a vase shatter against the wall. 

*****

We don’t talk about the fight after it happens. JC just goes about his business and I go about mine. He drives the fifteen minutes into town for his office job, and I sit on our tractor, plowing the fields, my mind anywhere but on my work.

I wonder if I’m wrong about us. Maybe it’s just me. Maybe I’m just seeing things that aren’t there. Maybe JC does still look at me like he used to. Maybe he does still get that tender look in his eyes and I’m just missing it.

But he didn’t deny anything. He said he still loved me, but yet, he didn’t deny that there was a problem. I can’t live on his words alone. I need to know that he still wants to make love to me, that he still wants to share his future with me. I need to know that he’s not just here because it’s comfortable, familiar.

I see JC’s car turn into our driveway, and I look up at the sky. It must be later than I thought. I turn the tractor towards the barn, ready to finish for the night. I’m looking forward to taking a nice hot shower and relaxing on the couch for the evening. Well, relaxing as much as I can with all the tension that’s in our house.

After I’m done in the barn, I walk down our long driveway to the mailbox to get our mail. For some reason, JC always forgets to stop and get it on his way home. The air is heavy around me as I walk, and I wave my hand above my head to try to get rid of some of the gnats that seem to be lingering around me. Pulling out our mail, I start leafing through it as I walk up the drive.

A letter from JC’s parents, one from my sister, a catalogue, and something from the US Government. I see JC’s name on the front of the envelope and my heart stops. I stare at the return address through tear filled eyes, and the other letters fall to the ground, forgotten.

This letter can only mean one thing.

JC has to go to the war.

My right hand is open on my chest, above my heart. The tears fall from my eyes and land on the starch white envelope clutched in my left hand. My mouth moves wordlessly as I stare, first at the letter, then at our house.

It was only a matter of time, I suppose. The war had been going on for a while now, and there were commercials on the radio every night about the citizens being called into action. The government needed able-bodied men to take over where our soldiers had fallen.

I just never thought it would happen to us.

I wasn’t eligible to go, and as I stared at the letter, I cursed the fact that I would have to stay here while JC was off in another country fighting for rights that weren’t even ours. My eyes fell to my leg, where under my trousers, it was scarred from the operations. Like my father, I had fallen from a tractor in the fields and my leg had been run over. I was able to function normally, but for something like a war, I was considered disabled, I would never be able to walk all day through the jungle and not have to stop and rest my leg.

Numbly, I picked up the dropped mail and slowly walked to the house. Careful to shut the door quietly behind me, I called out to JC as I put all the mail but that fateful letter on our table.

“In here,” he called. I should have known. He sat at that piano every night.

“Josh,” I said softly, and he turned to look at me.

I’ll never forget how he looked in that moment. Even though things were strained between us, he was still the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen. The sunlight was fading outside, and the last rays of the day were filtering through the window. The sunlight hit his eyes the right way, and the blue seemed to jump out of his face. His hair was perfectly combed off his face, and his chiseled features were cut from marble. I couldn’t stop a tear from falling as I looked at him.

“Lance,” he said, “what is it?”

I wordlessly handed him the letter, and he took it with wide eyes. Glancing down at it, he shook his head briefly before opening it. Taking out the single slip of paper, he read it through before setting it on the bench next to him. He hung his head, biting his lip.

“When?” I asked him.

“Day after tomorrow,” he replied.

I moved to sit next to him, needing to hold him, but he stood. “I better call my mom,” he said.

I was left, holding nothing but the air and the letter that just made things worse. 

*****

The next two days passed too quickly for me. JC had a lot to do, packing just the necessary things, buying the regulation uniform the Army required. I thought things might change, knowing JC might not come back changed things for me, but they were still tense, we were still distant towards each other.

The ride to the train station was silent. JC drove, needing something to keep his mind off where he was going. I couldn’t keep my eyes off him, yet I didn’t want to stare. I rested my elbow on the door, my head on my fist and stared out the front window, occasionally glancing at the love of my life.

The train station was crowded, most of the crowd young men in the regulation tan khakis and shirts. I looked around at the people as JC and I sat on the hard benches in the station, waiting for his train to be called.

Across the aisle, a young man with his wife was sitting. I watched him, his brown hair flopping in his eyes, as he held his daughter. She was young, probably no more than six months old. Her mother sat next to him, tears in her eyes. The man spoke softly to her, and I heard a New York accent, and I briefly wondered how he managed to get from New York to Mississippi. I heard him reassuring his wife that he would be home soon, he didn’t want to miss his daughter growing up. “After all, Kel,” he told her, “I need to scare all the would be boyfriends, don’t I?” She laughed at his words, the happy sound disguised by tears.

Pulling my eyes from the family, I glanced at JC. Following his gaze, I saw another couple standing on the platform, locked in a tight embrace. The boy pulled away, and I gasped. He couldn’t be much older than the required eighteen. His curly hair was a mop on his head, and as I watched, his girl reached out to run her fingers through it. I could feel her pain through the crowd. Tears fell down her pretty face; she clung to him like he was her life. He moved to hug her, burying his face in her blonde hair, pulling back and looking at her as if he was trying to memorize her every feature.

JC’s train was announced and we stood. I noticed the curly hair boy hug his girl close as she sobbed. I noticed the New York guy hand his daughter back to his wife after one last long kiss on her cheek. I heard some kids behind me crying and I turned.

Two young children, under the age of ten, were latched onto a man’s leg. He squatted down next to them, tears on his face. His wife stood above them, looking down, her blonde hair pulled off her face, accentuating her large eyes, tears on her face. The man stood with a child in each arm, and looked at her sadly. She stepped forward, wrapping her arms around them all, and they stood for a minute, waiting until the final boarding call before he pulled away.

I looked at JC, who stood with his bag on his shoulder, his hands shoved in his pockets. “This is it,” he said.

I nodded, “Yeah,” I said thickly.

We stood awkwardly, each not sure what to do. Finally, JC reached out to me, pulling me close. “I love you, Lance,” he said, patting my back.

“I love you too, JC,” I said into his shoulder, “Be careful over there.”

Pulling away, he nodded, “I will.” He took a deep breath, “bye.”

“Bye.”

I watched him get on the train. He took his seat, which was next to a window and his eyes met mine through the glass. His face was somber and I suddenly realized how old he looked. As the train pulled out of the station, he raised his hand to the glass. I waved back, my hand falling limply at my side as the train disappeared in the distance.

I stood there for a minute, letting the reality of JC being gone set in. The young mother across from me held her daughter close to her chest, the tears fresh on her face. Behind me, I heard the woman telling her kids that their daddy would be back.

As the girlfriend of the curly haired kid turned, her eyes met mine. They were tinged with sadness, and yet she managed to offer me a sympathetic smile. She seemed to think we were going through the same thing, her and I.

But we weren’t. Her boyfriend showed her he loved her. He took her in his arms like he never wanted to let her go. Mine may as well given me a handshake, that’s how intimate our hug was. She was the lucky one.

At least she got a kiss goodbye. 

*****

The house loomed before me when I got back. It stood in the night, the white siding a stark contrast to the blackness surrounding it. I sat in the car, not able to get out, not able to take those steps into a house that I knew was empty.

Reluctantly, I got out of the car, the door slamming seeming loud to my ears. I walked up the steps, not hearing the squeak in the second step. I stopped suddenly, staring at the swing that was hanging by chains from the ceiling. I hadn’t noticed it when we left. I didn’t even realize JC took the time to hang it for me. I moved to the door, testing it, opening it, listening for the creaky hinge.

When it silently opened, I let it bang shut and curled into a ball on my newly hung swing and cried. 

*****

Time passed slowly for me, as I knew it would. I dreaded every new day. I didn’t work in the fields much, afraid to be away from the radio for too long, afraid I would miss some breaking news about the war.

I missed JC like crazy. I would sit in the living room on the piano bench and stare at the keys. I memorized his song lyrics, smiling at his dream of becoming a songwriter who was a big as Bob Dylan. I placed my hands over the keys even though I didn’t know how to play, and plucked some notes. It was enough for me to know that JC touched these keys every night.

I tried not to think of him in that jungle. I tried not to picture him, huddling in some foxhole, a gun in his hand, shells blaring overhead. That would only lead to thoughts that I didn’t need to have. I hoped he made friends over there, I didn’t want him to be lonely. I wondered if the curly haired kid was in his troop, or the father of two, or the kid from New York. I wondered how they all looked with their heads shaved. JC’s hair wasn’t too long, so I knew it wouldn’t take long for his to grow back when he came back. I smiled at the thought of the curly haired kid, if I were his girlfriend, I would have cut off a lock of hair to remember him by.

I wondered if he talked about me. I wondered if he tacked a picture of me up somewhere. I wondered if he thought about me, and if the thought brought him comfort.

I wondered if he felt as alone as I did. 

*****

When the first letter came, I wasn’t prepared for it. I had got the mail as usual, and took my time sorting through the bills, the catalogues offering me better farm equipment for less money. His was the last on the pile, and I stared at the postmark, not really believing that it was there.

Carefully opening the letter, I took a deep breath as I began to read.

 

_Dear Lance,_

_Well, this place is officially hell. I hate it here. It’s so damn hot during the day, and it rains all the damn time. I just hate walking through the ponds and lakes with my gun held above my head so it doesn’t get wet. I hate walking around in wet clothes, I hate the way the fabric of my jacket sticks to me. I just hate everything._

_I’m miserable, in case you haven’t guessed. I used to complain about going to work every day, but not anymore. What I would give to be sitting behind that desk pushing papers._

_The guys in my battalion are cool, though. There’s this one kid, Justin (he was the one in the train station with the curly hair), who just cries every night, though. I’ve kind of adopted him as my younger brother. He’s only eighteen for God’s sake, he shouldn’t be exposed to this kind of violence. He misses his girl, his mama, his friends like crazy. He had to shoot someone the other day, and he’s never going to get over that._

_I have to go, it’s getting late, and we move out early in the morning. I just wanted to let you know I was okay._

_Love,  
JC_

I didn’t know what to think after reading the letter. It was so distant, like he could have been writing to one of the school kids that sent the men good wishes.

At least it was something, I thought, standing up. I took a bottle of whisky out of the cabinet and took a swallow straight from the bottle, not bothering with a glass. At least he was okay. At least he had someone to talk to.

At least he thought of me to write. 

*****

I almost wished he hadn’t written.

I wasn’t able to write back, since no one knew where each troop would be to get the letters to the soldiers. There was so much I wanted to say to him, so much I wanted to tell him, and all I could do was compose letters in my head that would never be sent.

I found myself taking a deep breath before I opened the mailbox every day. I didn’t want to hope, and yet that’s all I could do. I didn’t want to be disappointed when there wasn’t a letter, and yet I was.

I started writing those letters to JC. I knew I couldn’t send them, so I just kept them in a folder on the piano next to JC’s music. I thought that he could read them if he wanted to if he came home.

When he came home. 

*****

I almost cried the day the second letter came. I didn’t even make it into the house, I just sat on the porch swing and read it.

 

_Dear Lance,_

_Today was my first real battle. We were walking through the jungle as usual, when there were these strange sounds overhead. It almost sounded like someone was whistling. Our commanding officer yelled for us to get down and take cover and I dropped to the ground, my gun in front of me, my eyes roaming the countryside, looking for any sign of the enemy._

_God, Lance, I’ve never been so scared in my life. Every time I squeezed off a shot, I shut my eyes, I didn’t want to know if I’ve done any damage, I didn’t want to know if I killed an innocent young man. And every time I shut my eyes, a picture of you flashed in front of me. By the end of the battle, I knew what I was fighting for._

_It wasn’t for our country, it wasn’t for the freedom of these people, it was for you. I’m fighting for my chance to come home to you, Lance. That’s all I want to do. I just want to fight these battles and make it out of here alive so I can come home and love you._

_I miss you so much out here, I can’t even imagine missing you more. And yet, every day, I do. Justin and I sit in the hole at night and all we can talk about is you and Britney. He’s thinking of asking her to marry him if he makes it out of here. Being in a place like this makes you realize what you have, what you can lose._

_I can’t write more now, but I will write again the first chance I get. I promise._

_I love you,  
JC_

 

Tears fell down my face as I read his words. I have never missed him more than I did right at that moment. My heart did flips as I realized I was his reason for getting out of there.

I ran into the house to get his first letter, comparing the two. They were written a little over three weeks apart, and the difference between them was amazing. The first was so impersonal, almost cold. The second...well the second was the JC I once knew. That was the JC I fell in love with.

Sitting on the swing, I allowed my tears to fall. I looked out over our fields and I allowed myself to let out all of the anger and frustration and fear that I held inside.

Why did it take this? Why did it take a war to make JC and I realize that what we have is wonderful? Why did it take him having to go to a foreign country to make him see that I was his home, and that I always would be?

I looked out over the fields and a vision of JC and I running through them popped into my head. We were young, I was only fifteen, and we were just running to run. It was a time when we didn’t have any worries, we didn’t care what people thought of us, we didn’t know what our lives would have in store for us, all we cared about was that we were together.

The vision changed and I saw JC as he is now, walking through the field, a gun slung over his shoulder, a helmet on his head, the rain falling from the sky, dripping in his face. I saw shells dropping in the distance; I heard the whistling as they flew through the air.

“Please, God,” I whispered, “please let him come home.” 

*****

When I started looking forward to the mail, I knew there was something wrong with me. I started going back into the fields again, knowing the crop had to be good this year because we needed the money. But I always found myself glancing at the sky, judging the time, and guessing when the mail truck would arrive. If I somehow missed it, I always ran to the end of the driveway, anxious to peer inside the box, wondering if I would have another letter to read.

So far, I had six letters. Six letters that I had memorized, six letters where the pages were wrinkled, where tear stains smudged the ink in some places.

When I got the seventh, I didn’t allow myself to open it until I was in my place on the swing.

 

_Dear Lance,_

_Justin was shot today._

_I’m sitting here, writing this, a flashlight beam hooded beneath my hand, the rain falling overhead. But those are tearstains on the paper, not rain. I haven’t stopped crying since Justin died._

_We were walking through the forest when it happened. Out of nowhere came the attack, and a few men had fallen. Justin and I were together, near the back, so we ran to take cover. He was behind me, and when I heard his cry, I just knew. I dropped to the ground behind a bush and turned to look. He was lying on the ground on his stomach, his eyes wide and staring at me. Blood was coming out of his mouth, and he was trying to speak. Looking away from his face, I looked above him and saw his shooter with his back to me. I raised my gun, aimed and shot him right in the back of the head. And I felt satisfaction, Lance, I felt vindication run through my veins. I ran to Justin, and saw his wound. It was bad, Lance, I knew as soon as I saw it that he wasn’t going to make it. The tears were falling from my eyes as I cradled him. He was speaking softly to me, and I leaned over to him. He was babbling about Britney, telling me to tell her that he loved her, making me promise to find her and give him his things. He clutched something in his fist, and he held that to his chest as he died. I opened his fist to see her locket, a picture of them inside._

_He was just a kid, Lance! God, he was only eighteen! And now he’s dead. And he left a family behind. He had two brothers, a mother and father who loved him, and a girl whose world revolved around him. This isn’t fair! We have no purpose in being here! This isn’t our war to fight! There was no reason for an eighteen-year-old boy to lose his life on foreign soil._

_I don’t know what to do anymore, Lance. I don’t know how to even find the will to get up in the mornings. Every time I hear a shell I wonder if it’s going to be me this time. I ask a million questions. What if Justin was running in front of me this afternoon, would I have been shot? What if I hadn’t shot the guy who killed Justin, would he have found me? What if I would get killed and wouldn’t get the chance to come home to you and tell you how much you mean to me? What if I never get the chance to look into your eyes again? Is this picture that I carry of you in my breast pocket enough? How much more rain is it going to take before the green of your eyes in this photo is gone? How much more of this can I take?_

_Love,  
JC_

 

I was numb. I couldn’t move. I could picture Justin’s girl, Britney, that day in the train station. I saw her clutch him as if she was afraid for her life. I see her run her hands through his curls, I see her lean into his touch. I see her press a Kleenex to her face as he boards the train. I see her eyes as they meet mine, and her sympathetic smile directed at me.

How is she going to deal with this? When that car rolls up in front of Justin’s parent’s house, is she going to be there? Does she spend afternoons with his mother, the two women who meant the most to Justin keeping each other company? Will she be there when they get the news that their oldest son is now dead?

I don’t even know the girl, but I am crying for her. I am crying for Justin, too. I’m crying because there is no point to this damn war, and my boy is over there, and I don’t know if I’m ever going to see him again. 

*****

I’m putting bills in the mailbox when the truck pulls up. I make pleasantries with the mailman, and hand him my handful of letters. He gives me one.

I’m shock still as he pulls away. I’m looking at the letter in my hand and I’m trembling.

It’s from the US Government.

I tell myself that this isn’t bad news. I tell myself that if something happened to JC, the black car would be pulling up to my door, an official looking guy would get out, and he would deliver the news personally. I tell myself that this kind of news would not be delivered in a letter by a mailman, but a letter by someone official.

But none of these thoughts make me feel any better. I’m still standing on the road as I open the envelope. I close my eyes as I pull out the single sheet of paper and unfold it. I steel myself for the worst as I open my eyes and look down at the paper in my hand.

 

_Dear Mr. Bass,_

_I regret to inform you that Joshua Scott Chasez has been wounded in battle. He sustained an injury to his right leg that has him hospitalized and bedridden._

_Joshua was wounded while attempting to save another private’s life. He will be awarded the Purple Heart for bravery and will be returning home, as his injury will limit his ability in any further combat._

I stopped reading after that line. I didn’t care what the rest of the letter said. JC was coming home. 

*****

I drove like a madman to the train station the day JC was supposed to be coming home. I paced tirelessly in the waiting area, getting glares from some of the other people there. I looked around the station, looking for familiar faces from the day JC left, and not seeing anyone. Britney wasn’t clutching Justin tightly, the family behind me wasn’t sobbing, and there wasn’t a young infant in her father’s arms.

There was a whistle of a train, and I stopped moving. I stood where I was, suddenly afraid. Now that JC was home were things going to be different? Were we going to go back to the way we were, afraid to tell each other what we were thinking, afraid to show our love?

People milled in front of me, blocking my view of the passengers getting off the train. People were hugging, some were laughing and I still couldn’t move from my spot. I strained to see around the family in front of me, looking at the door of the train, holding my breath.

When JC stepped into the doorway, my breath exploded from me. He looked so handsome, his hair shorter than I remembered, but those same chiseled features, those same blue eyes that locked with mine across the platform. He glanced down at the train steps and I began to walk towards him. When I could see him fully, I began to cry.

He was leaning on a cane, his leg bandaged beneath his khaki trousers. He still wore his uniform, and I have never seen anything look better on him.

“Josh,” I whispered.

When his eyes met mine again, he smiled. It was a small smile, and I knew it would be a long time before he would forget the past few months. But that didn’t matter now. All that mattered was that he was home.

I ran towards him, closing this distance between us quickly. He smiled wider, taking steps towards me, his going slow because of his wound. And then I stood before him, afraid to touch him, afraid I would hurt him.

He made the move that I was too scared to. He dropped his cane and his bag, and pulled me close. His arms wrapped around my back and he clung to me. I felt his tears on my shoulder and I pulled back, bringing my hands up to cup his face. I wiped away his tears, knowing that my own were spilling from my eyes.

He leaned forward and kissed me; his lips molding to mine as if it hadn’t been months since they last touched. He ran his hands up my back as he kissed me, pulling me even closer, holding onto me for dear life.

Breaking the kiss, he once again buried his face into my shoulder.

“Let’s go home, Lance,” he whispered in my ear, gently biting the earlobe.

I could do nothing but nod. 

*****

We made love that day four times.

And this was making love. Not the murmuring words of love and having sex, rolling over to our respective sides of the bed when it’s done. This was sweet, longing, and somewhat fearful. Now that he had seen life snuffed out before his eyes, JC was scared of losing everything that was important to him.

We held each other as we cried. We told each other things that we never shared before. I cleaned his wound for him, his protests of me seeing the gunshot hole falling on deaf ears. And when I was done cleaning it, we made love again because I realized how close I came to losing him.

JC and I had once forgotten what love was. We got so wrapped up in our own lives that we didn’t realize that what we were losing by forgetting was the most important thing in the world.

When I told JC that love had to be shown, he took it to heart, I saw that the day he left and the hinge was fixed, the swing was hung, and our porch step didn’t creak anymore. That was his way of showing me that he did care, even if he didn’t show me as much as I needed him to.

And I showed him how much he meant to me, too. He read all of the letters I couldn’t send. I understood when he just had to sit down and cry because of everything he had seen. I went with him when he went to see Britney.

JC took to playing the piano again and writing his songs. These were different than the songs he wrote before the war, and they should have been. Before the war he was a different person, he lived his life thinking of the future, thinking that things could just get better. Now, he was jaded. He lived day to day. He didn’t like to think too far in the future, because he knew it could be taken away in an instant. His songs were sad, about losing love, losing people that were important to you.

Eventually, he began to get out of that funk he was in. At my suggestion, he sought counseling for what happened during the war. He began to smile more, laugh more, let loose once again. The songs he played slowly began to get happier, lighter. I would smile as I watched him in the doorway, playing his songs for Britney when she would come to visit. He even wrote a song for her about Justin, and we all cried as he sang.

We found ourselves sitting on the porch swing at night. It became a ritual to eat dinner and bring a glass of lemonade outside. The glasses would sit on the ground, the condensation running down the sides. I would lay my head in JC’s lap as he read the paper. When he was done, we would just talk. It was here I learned about his guilt over Justin, how he felt he should have been able to protect the boy.

It was here I learned of how JC looked at my picture every night before he went to bed.

It was here I told JC how I would look forward to the mail every day.

It was here JC and I found the love that we had once forgotten.


End file.
